Once Upon a Valentine

“He’s getting married soon. He’s happy.”

She finally looked up at him. Her long lashes were darker than usual, but it was the only hint of cosmetics that he could see. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is.” He shifted, touching her elbow to guide her out of the way of a waiter bearing a tray loaded with cocktails. He snagged a slender flute of champagne. “With Rory and Tyler in his life, Erik’s finally found what he’s always wanted.” Even though his partner had shunned anything approaching romance since a bitter divorce, he now couldn’t wait until the day he and Rory exchanged their vows. He handed Shea the glass and their fingers brushed.

Those lashes of hers quickly lowered, shielding her strikingly blue eyes. She started to lift the glass to her lips, but stopped and looked back up at him. “With him being married soon, will that put a greater load on your shoulders at Merrick & Sullivan?”

“Is that an official question, or are you personally curious?”

She pursed her soft, pink lips. He figured if she had any clue how he wanted to kiss her every time she did that, she’d want to drag a bag over her head.

“Both, I guess,” she finally allowed, and he wondered who was more surprised by the admission.

“Our partnership is like any good partnership,” he said. “Nothing’s exactly fifty-fifty all the time. It ebbs and flows on each side.”

Amusement suddenly glinted in her eyes. “That’s not quite a direct answer.”

“Sometimes Erik takes more of a load and sometimes I do. It always works out because we trust each other and we’re equally committed to our business.”

“You’ve been partners for a long time now.”

“Twenty years.” He smiled slightly. “Some relationships do last.”

The glint went out as abruptly as a candle flame doused with water. “So you’ve claimed.” She set the untouched glass on the table next to them, lifted her notepad and slid a pen right out of the top of her dress.

He couldn’t help but grin. “That’s better than a magician pulling roses from his sleeve. Anything else interesting down there?” From his height, he had a stellar view of the top curves of her breasts contained within the square-cut dress. His memory all too easily filled in the details of blush-colored nipples that tasted sweeter than summer strawberries.

Her cheeks had turned pink and she grimaced. “I forgot to borrow an appropriate purse along with the rest of this getup.”

He dragged his mind out of their memories with an effort. “You borrowed the dress?”

She looked like she regretted the admission. “From my mother.” She clicked her pen once. “What was it about Fresh Grounds that inspired you and your partner to sponsor the auction here tonight?”

“That dress belongs to your mother?” It was a helluva dress on Shea. But he couldn’t imagine someone old enough to be her mother wearing it.

“Yes.” She clicked her pen again. “The sponsorship?”

“How many times have I told you that all work and no play is no fun at all?”

She just looked at him.

He relented. “Fresh Grounds does good work.” The gig might have been Beatrice’s first since coming back to town, but he and Erik wouldn’t have footed the bill for the event if the cause behind it hadn’t had significant merit. “Regardless of whose dress it is, you look beautiful.”

Her jaw looked tighter than ever. She clicked her pen again and looked pointedly at Beatrice, who was standing a few tables away having an animated discussion with one of the guests. “Shouldn’t you be saving comments like that for your date if you expect to get anywhere with her? She’s the one who is beautiful.”

His dark-haired sister was wearing red and did look beautiful. But what interested him a whole lot more was the look in Shea’s eyes.

She was jealous.

He managed not to smile. “You think she’s my date?”

Her chin angled, challenging. “Isn’t she?”

If she only knew.

“You should meet her.” He raised his voice enough for his sister to hear and called her name.

Shea gave an annoyed little hiss but greeted Beatrice with a polite smile when she immediately came over.

Pax put his arm fondly around his sister’s shoulders. Knowing he shouldn’t be enjoying Shea’s obvious annoyance didn’t stop him from doing so. “Beatrice, this is Shea Weatherby.” He looked into her blue eyes. “Shea,” he drawled, slowly, “this is Beatrice Merrick.”

He saw the quick dilation of her pupils. The accusation. “You got married?”

His enjoyment screeched to a standstill and face-planted right there on the busily patterned ballroom carpet. So much for briefly thinking he was gaining some ground.

“Beatrice is my sister,” he corrected flatly.

The relief that filled her eyes might have been comical if he didn’t know just how low her opinion of him really was.

“Bad enough being his sister,” Beatrice laughed quickly, brave enough to ignore the sudden tension. She grabbed Shea’s hand between hers and pumped it. “I feel like I’ve known you for ages. After that first article you wrote about Pax and Erik a few years ago, I’ve followed your work in the Tub. You have a wonderful gift with words.”

* * *

Shea barely heard a word of what the other woman was saying.

His sister.

Beatrice might well be Pax’s date for the night, but the tall, stunning brunette was his sister.

And while the beautiful woman was all smiles, Pax’s expression had turned to stone.

Some portion of her mind recognized that she needed to respond to Beatrice, but she couldn’t seem to look away from Pax. “Your brother mentioned he had a sister once,” she managed, “but I...I had the impression you lived in San Francisco.”

Pax finally looked away from her, staring down into his glass, and Shea swallowed, glancing quickly at his sister.

Beatrice’s eyes were the same shade of brown as her brother’s. “I moved back about six months ago.” She lifted her shoulder. “Decided that I didn’t want to go back to working for someone else, so I opened up my own shop here.”

Pax suddenly shifted. “Beatrice is the event planner who put this auction together. She’s the one you want to talk to tonight.” With a faint nod that was clearly directed only at his sister, he turned and strode across the room toward his partner.

Shea had to fight the urge to go after him.

What could she possibly say right there in the middle of the crowded ballroom?

She was sorry she’d misjudged him?

And, oh, by the way, she was pregnant?

“So how long have you been writing for the Washtub?”

Shea moistened her lips. It was an effort to look away from Pax, resplendent in his black suit and pale gray tie. But like it or not, she still had a job to do.

“Six years.” It was almost a surprise to realize she was still holding her notepad and pen. “And I should be asking you the questions.”

“Not really.” As if they were long-time friends, Beatrice looped her arm through Shea’s and steered her toward the front of the room, where a head table was set on a dais. “George Summers is the director of Fresh Grounds. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

From the corner of her eye, Shea saw Pax heading for the ballroom doors. The intention in his stride was unmistakable.

Sponsor or not, he was leaving, and she guiltily knew that she was the reason.

“I will,” she said abruptly. “I just need to take care of something first.” She pulled away from Beatrice and followed him.

Catching him was easier said than done. He was long-legged and didn’t have high heels and a tightly fitted gown to hinder him. Only the fact that he was waylaid by an older couple he obviously knew just outside the ballroom doors allowed her to reach him at all.

Since she’d known him, he’d always had a smile in his eyes. Usually a wicked one. But when he glanced at her this time, acknowledging her presence before finishing his conversation with the couple, there was nothing in his eyes at all.

Regret swamped her and she hovered awkwardly nearby until the couple moved off. Only then did Pax turn her way. His face was hard, and her nerves flagged.

“You just going to stand there clicking that pen of yours?”

She flushed and realized she had been nervously clicking the pen. “I, um, I need to talk to you about something.”

His expression didn’t change. “Like the fact that you actually thought Bea was my wife?”

She opened her mouth to deny it but couldn’t. “I don’t know what I thought!” She stuck the pen behind her ear and moistened her dry lips. “I haven’t been able to think straight where you’re concerned since—” She broke off and took a deep breath.

“I just told you yesterday that I’d never been married.” His voice was low, but that didn’t mask his anger.

“Yes, well, people say things all the time that aren’t true.”

“What do you think I did? Stopped by a wedding chapel between then and now? Or that I’ve been married all along and been lying about it every time the subject came up? That for the past few years, I’ve been hiding her locked in a closet?” His lips thinned. “There’s nothing about me you don’t know.”

“I don’t know everything about you!”

He waved one hand. “Then do that digging Cornelia keeps telling me you’re so good at.”

How many times had she fought the temptation to use her sources to learn more about him? He’d never let her forget it if he knew. “Invading your privacy wouldn’t be right. And I’m doing a job for Cornelia, vetting the requests she gets for accuracy. Because people lie. All the time. They exaggerate, they omit and they twist the facts to suit their situations and their wants.” She was guilty herself, still omitting that teensy detail that she was pregnant.

“I don’t,” he repeated flatly.

She was breathless and felt dizzy, so badly did she want to believe him. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” She drew in a shaky breath. Cowardly or not, she couldn’t make herself tell him the truth then and there while just feet away strangers dressed in fancy clothes bid on everything from free haircuts to a season of sailboat rentals from Merrick & Sullivan.

She leaned against the nearby wall and tried to compose herself. Making a scene in the fancy hotel would infuriate Harvey beyond hope. “I have to go back to my editor with some quotes from you and a few photographs, or he’s going to be very unhappy with me.”

His lips twisted and he yanked at his tie as if it were suddenly strangling him. “The story tonight isn’t about me or Erik. It’s about Fresh Grounds.”

He’d never refused to cooperate for a story before, and she was desperately afraid he’d choose now to start. She’d have only herself to blame, too. “If you want more people to read about the agency’s work, it’s going to be because you and your partner’s names are attached to the story. And—” she admitted huskily “—I’d sort of like to keep my job. I have rent to pay and all that.”

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